Waking Up
by Silver Bones in a Green Sauce
Summary: After one of England's spells goes terribly wrong, it's up to the countries to find each other.
1. The Beginning

My first Hetalia fic, so please be gentle. Inspired by "World Powers" (Drovenich) and the ending of Lost (which you don't have to have any knowledge of). And, yes, there is a HetaOni reference in this. Enjoy and please review.

* * *

A book in his hand, Arthur stood and looked over the pentagram drawn onto his floor, double checking for any mistakes he may have made while creating it. Finding none, his attention switched to the spell book that was now being held with both hands; it was already open to the page he would need. His gaze quickly swept over the words he had long since memorized. He believed he was ready.

His chanting started out slow and steady, the Latin falling easily from his mouth. The volume quickly rose though, and with it, so did the proof that his spell was working; paintings were rattling, books were falling off of shelves, the floor was shaking. It was becoming hard to keep his footing, and after so long, he couldn't help but fall to his knees. Objects went flying through the air, glass and metal crashing into him. He never stopped chanting though.

_I can do this. I am the bloody United Kingdom._

In the literal sense, he _was_ bloody; the skin of his arms, chest, and face was torn. As more of his clothing ripped open, the flesh under it did as well. Still though, he kept going. It was too dangerous not to.

_I can—I can—I—_

It was then, while he was screaming the words found on the page second to last, that drops of one of the ingredients he had poured over the pentagram hit him, going into his eyes. He was prepared for such a thing—everything he had used save his own blood was lethal—and had known to cover his face with his arm, but the action came too late. He fell back, writhing in agony.

Though the chanting stopped, the now uncontrolled spell kept going.

* * *

When Alfred found him ten minutes later, he was still unconscious. He came to when the younger country started shaking him by the shoulders, shouting his name. His vision had yet to return to him, but there was no mistaking his ex-colony's voice, just like there was no mistaking the concern to be found there.

"Britain!"

Alfred's voice was still frantic. He had to wonder how bad his injuries really were; other than his headache and the stinging of his eyes, he couldn't feel them. He barely registered the hand that was still on his shoulder.

"Britain! Answer me! What happened here?!"

_You happened. You caused the third World War, you bloody git. I just wanted. . . to fix it. I just wanted. . ._

He was also thought to be a major cause of it, but since most of the people who were pointing fingers at him did so because they blamed Alfred's behavior on his upbringing, which they saw as his fault, he paid them no mind.

"What's going on?! Britain!"

The floor was still shaking, but Arthur couldn't feel it.

"I'm sorry, America. I can. . . no longer see."

It was then that the blood Arthur had poured over the pentagram reached the same liquid that had blinded him, causing a white hot flash of magic to engulf everything, starting with the personifications of the United States of America and Great Britain.


	2. Connected

_"We are all connected, joined together by an invisible thread, infinite in its potential and fragile in its design." - Heroes_

* * *

_"—because you made me so complete, dear, but you left me so alone here—"_

Matthew stretched, sitting up in bed, before shutting off his alarm. He sat there for a minute, not yet ready to face the full day ahead of him, but eventually picked his glasses up off of his bedside table, slipped them onto his face, and, after stretching once more, stood. He would need to shower, but first? His dog, Kumajiro, padded after him into the kitchen, seemingly agreeing that breakfast was the top priority.

The aroma of pancakes soon floated throughout the hockey player's home, as did the audio coming from his unwatched television—a music video of a British rock star.

* * *

"I'm sorry, brother! I hope we will be able to see each other again one day!"

Ivan watched as his eldest sister ran away from him, her cries fading as she went. It pained him to see her go as it always did, but he had long since grown accustomed to people trying to be free of him. His own sister was no exception.

His thoughts strayed to his _other _sister, the one that he was only free of at that moment because she was locked up in a prison, and he shuttered. As much as he loved Natalia, he didn't mind being lonely so much if it meant that she wasn't harassing him to marry her. His hands may have been soaked in blood, he may have tried to force others to stay with him, but the unfairness of the situation was obvious; they belonged in each other's positions. It should have been _her _that was in a straight jacket, that was watching their older sister leave once more, that had her back to the Yellow House. It should have been Natalia, not him, that was diagnosed as a mental patient.

He let out a barely audible sigh as he felt one of the guards clutch at his arm. He turned to look at the smaller man, along with his new home, ready to face his fate with a smile.

He wanted to escape the freezing temperature of Moscow, but as the gates locked behind Katyusha's retreating form and the wind hit him, he knew that the cold wouldn't leave, even after he was inside. It never did, after all. He was always cold.

At least he wouldn't be alone anymore, he thought as he was led down a stark white hallway. The workers seemed like they would be great company.

His smile grew as he read the name tag belonging to one of the orderlies he passed—Toris.

* * *

"Ve~ I hope we get to make pasta~ Ve~ Ve~ Lovino, do you think we will? Pasta, pasta, paaaaasta~"

Lovino openly rolled his eyes at his younger brother's antics. The idiot had been getting on his nerves more than usual lately—something he hadn't thought possible until it actually _happened_—and he was about to tell him so, but their cooking class—Feliciano's idea—instructer chose that moment to finally show up, flinging the door open in a dramatic jester, cutting the Italian's complaint off.

"Bonjour~ Bienvenue! What lovely faces you all have~"

A French, flamboyant, _loud _instructor. Lovino could feel his fists clench, and he knew that it would only get worse when his brother realized that there probably _wouldn't _be any pasta being made.

_Stupido._

It wasn't like _he _got worked up easily over—

Fingers were pulling on his curl, and as he looked up, a scowl and a blush on his face, he took in green eyes and a warm smile. It was when the man started telling him how cute it—and he—was that Lovino finally lost it.


	3. Step One

Matthew held his breath as he watched the puck make its way across the ice, only exhaling once it reached its destination. His arms shot up into the air, along with his body, as a cry of excitement tore from his lips. He could hear his teammates doing the same, could hear them gathering around—he didn't turn to look to see who it was. It obviously wasn't him, though he had been the one to score the final point; as usual, he was being ignored. It didn't matter though; for once it wasn't going to bring down his mood.

His team had won the last large game in the country and would be touring others to do the same. The first on the list would be America, which he felt would come as no real challenge. It was Russia he was excited for, though isn't wasn't until their third match, and that was assuming they even won the first two. His team had been on a roll lately though, and he had confidence in them.

That night he dreamt of a hockey match, one that seemed unlike any dream he had had before, though he could only remember it vaguely. He could recall the eyes of his opponent, a shade so similar to the rare one belonging to his own pair, but other than that. . . He couldn't shake off the sense of de ja vu after waking though. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought it was a memory. He was sure he would remember the man he had played against though if they had ever truly met; you just didn't forget someone like _that_.

He couldn't remember who had won the game, but the man had been Russian, which Matthew chose to take as a good sign.


End file.
